


Fragile

by tinfoil (milkystarlight)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Amputation, Dollification, Hux Has Issues, M/M, Mind Control, Tattoos, Under-negotiated Kink, but its low-key mind control, hux has A LOT of issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8605177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkystarlight/pseuds/tinfoil
Summary: Kylo doesn't care about whatever it is Hux is obsessing over. He just wishes he could be a little more quiet about it.





	1. Chapter 1

It happens all at once; the chaos, the destruction, Starkiller crumbling to pieces around him. Hux can't process it as it's happening, can't actually understand his defeat until he's on the shuttle to escape. 

The loss of Starkiller is a shameful blow on every level, most of all personal. This was exactly why he'd argued for, and eventually won, the production of another super weapon. Starkiller II was still a year away from completion, but now there would be more imperative to speed that up. 

 

Too much has happened for him to understand it just yet. He lets his brain try to make sense of it, letting each facet of his defeat wash over him. It’s important to get whatever emotional reaction he’s going to have out of the way while he’s alone. When he speaks to the troops they'll need to see him proud and unshaken. They don't need to see tremors of sick fear go through him when he thinks that the rebels might already know the coordinates of Starkiller II. 

 

He's currently holed up in medical, next to the bacta tank Ren's shattered body is recuperating in. Somehow, maybe because this minor irritation is the one thing he can process most easily, he is infuriated that Ren has come out of this damaged.

 

Ren isn't just damaged. That would make things too easy, as if he'd just taken some cosmetic damage in his fight with that Force sensitive little girl. No, Ren had the audacity to get his right leg cut off just above the knee. The prosthetic would be ready by the time Ren regains consciousness. It was an easy fix, apparently something the medical team had been able to throw together from existing parts. 

 

Hux hopes the cut on Ren's face doesn't heal properly.  
He hopes the missing limb gives him phantom pains.  
He hopes the prosthetic hurts and malfunctions.  
He certainly isn't jealous. In the aftermath of losing his greatest work he isn't going to be jealous that Ren got to lose a leg and he didn't.  
He has better things to do than get worked up about this, he tells himself as he stalks off to find something productive to do.  
\------------------

 

It haunts him. Every time Ren walks into the room, the prosthetic is a reminder of Hux's failure. In his mind the two are bound up with inseparable tightness. Ren's missing leg, the destruction of Starkiller, his own perverse and personal failures... All of them are linked with such seamless purity that he isn't sure where one ends and one begins. 

 

Starkiller was destroyed because he is a failure as a human being. He is a failure because he obsesses over disgusting paraphilic perversions that are beneath him. It isn’t divine punishment - Hux has never been a believer in any divinity but his own - but he suffers simply because his own personal weakness bled through into his work. Ren's presence is a constant reminder of these things.  
Rationally, he knows it doesn't make sense. It isn't as if Ren is trying to taunt him. There's nothing unnatural about how Ren moves now. There's no sound of mechanical joints when he walks. Obviously, the prosthetic remains covered at all times by the simple convenience of social decency. Whatever torment he thinks he's going through, (and there is torment, constant intrusive thoughts of the whore's life he deserves, fits of self-loathing that make it nearly impossible to drag himself out of bed), it’s all in his mind. And if he has anything to say about it, that's where it's all going to stay.

 

Hux doesn't think he's been doing anything out of the ordinary, but when Ren bangs on his door a fortnight later he realizes he must have let something slip. Try as he might, he can't process what it could have been. He hadn't said anything to Ren unless he had to. He'd barely even looked at the man.

 

The door is keyed to his thumb print. When he unlocks it Ren presses in, crowding him out of the way. "Lock the door," he orders, even though Hux is in the process of doing just that.

 

"What do you want, Ren?" Hux bites out, already irritated with having the knight here. Ren takes up too much space. There's simply too much of him to be tolerated. 

 

There's a faint hiss of locks depressurizing as Ren removes his helmet. If the dark tendrils of hair spilling to his shoulders or the scar shimmering in the dim light of the room has any effect on Hux, it doesn't show. "You're obsessing," he says with such total certainty that Hux denies it on principle. 

 

"About what, exactly?" Hux snaps. He needs Ren to leave. He needs Ren to have never come in here, never been aboard the Finalizer. 

 

Ren shakes his head, sets the helmet down on the desk. "I can hear your thoughts across the whole damn ship. You used to be locked up so tight and now you project self-loathing so loudly I can only think you want someone to know." The low, self-assured tone Ren speaks with is infuriating. 

Hux pulls himself up a little straighter, glaring Ren down. "So you've come to play counselor?"

 

"Something different, I think." Ren closes the space between them instantly, one hand wrapping around Hux's slim wrist and pressing their mouths together in what was at least intended as a kiss. Ren is all teeth and Hux gasps at the wrong moment, but the idea's there. 

 

Figures Ren would be incompetent at this too. Hux digs his free hand into Ren's hair, tilting his head so that when they kiss again it's done properly, mouths moving seamlessly against each other.

 

"Satisfied?" he asks, feeling but trying to ignore the color rising in his cheeks. "I'm not some adolescent who needs to be manhandled into affection." That's probably a lie, but Hux isn't going to acknowledge it. 

 

Ren looks lost. His idiotic doe eyes are shining, full of want. When he just continues to stand there with that lost look, Hux breaks away. Ren clearly hadn’t planned on getting past this stage. 

 

There's whiskey in the top drawer of his desk. Hux pours a drink for each of them, and Ren doesn't start talking again until after he's sipped at his. 

 

"You… sometimes when I look at you, you project this… image. Like a droid? Just the joints. You're fixated. You look at me, and you think about the… about my leg. And you hate yourself." Ren is looking fixedly at the amber liquid, not seeing the way the other man tries to fight his own instinctive fear at being found out. "I don't understand. I don't need to understand, but it's always so loud."

 

Hux can't fathom what Ren must be thinking. They both know the stringent policies the Order has on non-humans, but this isn't enough of an alteration to qualify Ren as one of those beastly aliens. There’s no reason for whatever Ren is picking up from him. Without any real response, he settles on simply saying, "I'm not able to control the volume of my thoughts."

 

"It isn't just volume. You project it. You want me to know."

 

Absurd. Ridiculous. He doesn't want anyone to know this, least of all Ren. He's sure of this right up until he hears his own voice saying "If that's true, it should be easy for you to take it from me."

 

Ren goes very still, somewhere between a prey animal caught in a hunter's sight and a predator sizing up its prey. "You would let me?"

 

"I wouldn't resist you."

 

Those few words hang in the air between them for a heartbeat before Ren locks his black gaze on Hux and extends his hand, willing the information to flow through the Force. Hux can feel it faintly. The sensation is a current moving around him, carrying away bits of his secret like sea foam on waves. It is surprisingly easy to let it happen.

 

The current pulls around him in small eddies and swirls, holding him and simultaneously washing through him until he is emptied of thought. He makes no resistance but doesn't offer himself up easily. He can feel Ren probing in the non-space of his empty mind. 

 

When it's over he is suddenly hollow. The gentle lapping current is gone, dried up, and he is deposited on the tiny island of his mostly physical existence. He doesn't feel any different, but Ren's head is cocked to the side and he wears a knowing smile. 

 

He's seen all of it, Hux is sure. The fantasies of amputation, the objectification, the sick neediness of his own imagined surrender. 

 

Shame flares in Hux's belly, hot and strangely welcome. "Well?" he snaps.

 

"We could make it work," Ren says softly, reaching out to drag gloved fingers down Hux's cheek. "Everything in your mind. We could make it real, for a little while. You would come out stronger for it. Purged of these..." He licks his lips, still looking so satisfied with himself. "...these aberrant desires."

 

He leans in close enough to kiss, but Hux doesn't dare close the space between them. "Do it then. Make me clean." 

When Ren grabs him by the collar and drags him in for a kiss Hux lets himself feel a fraction of relief at knowing he isn't expected to reciprocate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux gets some new tattoos.

 

A month passes before Hux has another chance to lay out all the components of his ritual.This is sooner than he would like to. He can go months between sessions if he has to. He usually waits until wherever he has last worked on is completely healed and the ink no longer so fresh. It looks more natural that way. 

 

In spite of years of service deep in space he hasn’t adjusted to the artificial day-night cycles. In his mind it is always night: when he wakes, when he spends thirteen hours every day trying to manage the insanity his life has become, when he gets off shift and collapses into bed. What he is trying to think of as ‘tonight’ is really just Black Shift, the sliver of time he has to himself.

 

Tonight Ren is waiting in his quarters. He has everything laid out on the desk, just like Hux had shown him. The gun is assembled, the inks laid out in their small titanium dishes. As requested, Ren hasn’t worn his ridiculous mask. It is disarming to see him so raw. It is a fair exchange for how much of himself Hux has already laid bare. 

 

Ren pulls on a pair of gloves. The are latex, not leather, and standard issue grey. He would have taken them from medbay. “Ready?” He asks, ever hopeful.

 

The smile on his face is another level altogether of disconcerting. Where there should be fear and anxiety, at least shame, Hux feels only a low current of anticipation. He feels safe in a way he’s sure is Ren projecting into his mind. “Do you think you can do it?” Hux answers as he unbuttons his tunic. 

 

“It should be easy enough.” There hadn’t been anything to practice with, but Hux had let Ren take whatever information he could directly from his mind. That had been...less than pleasant. Having his surface thoughts read wasn’t painful, but having his memories rifled through felt claustrophobic. He found it more tolerable when Ren projected thoughts into him rather than taking them out.

 

Ren is watching intently as he undresses, and Hux can feel the gaze burning into him. He doesn’t look up to see the way Ren licks his lips at the slow reveal of freckled skin and inked-in joints. He doesn’t even look up when he’s finished, standing in his own room stripped down to regulation boxer-briefs. 

 

Hux keeps his eyes fixed on his feet. All the tattoos he bears now are self-inflicted. He’s spent hours on them, drawing needle and ink over the porcelain ball joints he can almost see until they are visible to anyone else. Not that anyone has seen these. Ren is the first.

 

He feels shame burning in him, accompanied by the unwarranted rush of heat to his neck and crotch. No one has ever seen him like this. No one else has ever even come close to knowing.

 

For his part, Ren remains something like professional. “Sit here,” he indicates the chair pulled slightly away from the desk. “I’m going to finish your shoulders. If you want to we can take care of your chest tonight.”

“You could finish it tonight, couldn’t you?” Hux asks, taking the seat and leaning forward to give Ren better access to his back. The tattoo on his chest is going to be simple, just enough to indicate where his torso would be able to bend if he were a proper doll. After that all that was left was finishing his hips. His wrists and fingers would have to wait. He couldn’t risk tattooing somewhere that couldn’t be kept covered. 

 

“Do you want that?” Ren asks, voice mirroring exactly none of the apprehension Hux feels.

 

Behind him, Hux can hear the whir of the power supply being switched on. “I dont know. Yes.” The needle touches his skin with no warning, and he sighs into it. The pain is grounding, clarifying. It is a relief to surrender to the steady drum of it, to think of nothing except how sharp it is and the tiny beads of blood it sometimes brings to the surface. He’s never had the luxury of simply experiencing this and not being the one to guide the needle. It’s comforting, in its own way, this idea that he could trust Ren enough to let him mark him so deeply. Time falls away as Ren works. 

 

Something is nudging at the corners of his conscious mind. It’s familiar enough, marked with the comfortable ocean current that seems to accompany all of the thoughts Ren puts into him. It isn’t a coherent thought, just a sense of warmth and stability. He does not feel safe; safety is a luxury he can never have. Even so, he finds that letting down his barriers and allowing Ren’s projected thoughts to wash over him helps with some of the ever-present anxiety. He is empty, something to be admired and used, but devoid of all emotion. It ceases to matter how much if this is the product of his own desire.

 

When Ren shuts the tattoo gun off, Hux blinks and licks his lips, feeling as if he’s waking from a deep slumber. 

 

“You’re almost done,” Ren says quietly, carding a hand through Hux’s hair. “Stand up for me. I’m going to take your underwear off and have you lay on the bed so I can finish you.”

 

He obeys, and it is startlingly comforting to do so. Ren strips the last article of clothing from him, guides him to lay on the bed. His hands are strong and certain as he poses Hux with legs spread. 

 

The hum of the needle, and the accompanying pain, only serve to sink him deeper into the trance. Ren works silently, but now the thoughts pressing into Hux’s mind have coalesced into a mantra urging him to let go, to surrender, to submit. He falls into it, letting the words and pain carry him away. 

 

The stinging pain moves between his legs, up the inside of one thigh and then another. Hux doesn’t dare speak. There’s a brief wave of embarrassment as Ren’s hands settle over his balls and cock, holding them out of the way as he tattoos close to these most intimate parts. Hux wonders idly if he might enjoy having Ren touch him with something other than cold detachment. It doesn’t seem like such a terrible idea as it once might have.

 

All too soon it ends. The comforting electric buzz is gone, and the pain replaced by a cool bacta wipe gliding across the raw injuries. Like a tide going out, the sensation of warmth and comfort slowly washes away.

 

“How do you feel?” Ren asks, voice somewhere far away from wherever Hux feels himself drifting back from.

 

Speech is surprisingly difficult. When Ren raises his hand to stroke Hux’s hair, Hux leans mutely against the heat of his palm. The gun had gotten hot in Ren’s hand, his whole palm was still warm from it. “Okay.” Hux eventually answers. “I want to see it.”

Ren helps him to stand, which is welcome if not entirely necessary. He walks to the full-length mirror, one of the few vanities granted to officers. What greets him there is nothing short of breathtaking.

 

Standing before him is the doll that shares his face. It was him, he understood in some abstract way, but in so many ways it couldn’t be. The ball joints were beautiful, elegant as could be desired. They looked almost real. He traces his fingers over the fresh ink, still settling into his thighs. He looked...complete. He couldn’t hold onto the smile that took over his face. 

 

He looks even better with Ren behind him, a study in contrast. Hux wasn’t as small and slight as he had been, once, but next to Ren he feels so much smaller. Breakable. His shoulders are only half the width of Ren’s. Ren’s arms are thick with muscle, his own sinewy. His hips were narrow, so much so that when Ren’s hands settle over the curve of his hipbones they span nearly his entire waist.

 

“Perfect.” Ren whispers, echoing Hux’s sentiment. “My perfect, beautiful doll.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I for one cannot believe there is more of this filth.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should have some kind of apology or justification for this but I got nothing.


End file.
